


things you said i wouldn't understand

by juliusschmidt



Series: Last Best Option Universe [3]
Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Fuckbuddies, M/M, Pining, famous/non-famous
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-27
Updated: 2017-05-27
Packaged: 2018-11-05 14:17:19
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,381
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11015109
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/juliusschmidt/pseuds/juliusschmidt
Summary: After another long pause, Harry continues, “That’s actually exactly why I called. I understand what you were saying the other day and, like, now, I feel the same way.”





	things you said i wouldn't understand

**Author's Note:**

> feels good to post after months of being away. here's a little schmoop with a side of angst and pining. :) 
> 
> From the last best option 'verse, masterpost [here](http://juliusschmidt.tumblr.com/post/155731617755/harry-skyrockets-to-popstar-fame-through-his). No need to read anything else first; you should be able to jump in and out of the series wherever you like.

Hands on rough cement, muscles straining, Louis heaves himself up out of the pool of his dream. He blinks his eyes open and takes in the soft, grey light that fills the room. It’s dawn, or nearly. 

He has to shake himself off, shed the little drops of nonsensical memory- a playful shout, a knot of tension low in his belly, the soft, pink skin of a bare thigh- before he realizes what day it is - Tuesday, no, no, by now it'll be Wednesday, _exam day_ \- and where he’s at - his dorm. 

He’s not sure what’s woken him. He couldn’t’ve been asleep more than three hours. He reaches down, hand tangling in the soft fabric of his discarded hoodie, pulling and sifting through the folds until his fingers discover hard plastic, the case of his phone. 

5:37am. 3 missed calls from Harry Styles. 

His stomach flips, and he suddenly remembers seeing bright green eyes on the wall-sized poster of the popstar that hangs over his lab partner’s bed. It’s been months since he’s seen those eyes in person. 

Harry’s left him a message. He should wait; it’s bound to be distracting. He should set his phone back down and get another hour of sleep before hitting the books one last time. He can listen later, after his exam. 

He presses play. 

“Hey Louis!” Harry’s voice feels too bright, harsh sunlight on hungover eyes. He’s usually so morbid. “I just wanted to let you know, um, I figured it out. I know what you were talking about the other day. I feel it, too. I know you have an exam tomorrow… or today? Well, I just I thought you’d want to know. That it might cheer you up a bit. Call when you can. I’d love to hear your voice. So. Yeah... Bye.” 

By the end of the message, Louis’ heart has woken fully and is pounding in his chest. 

Harry feels it, too. The flip in his belly, the warmth rising to his cheeks and making his heart swell, the twinge of hopeful curiosity that pricks in the back of his mind, prompting the question, _could we really make this work, as in_ for real _, for real?_

But then Louis shakes his head. No, not possible. He’s never shared any of that with Harry. And, even if he had, Harry wouldn’t, _couldn’t,_ possibly feel the same way. Could he? 

Louis’ skin breaks out in goosebumps and he reaches down again to grab the hoodie and pulls it over his head. 

Then, he places his phone onto his nightstand and clicks the charger into place. Flat on his back, he stares at his ceiling and waits for sleep to wash back over him. 

But the room is growing lighter by the minute and his pulse is still racing. 

He closes his eyes. Harry’s face swims before him. It’s not the image from the poster this time. No, in this mental photograph, Harry’s bare chest glistens with water and his nose wrinkles, as he uses his forearm to push a chlorinated wave in Louis’ direction. 

Memory-Louis splutters and real-Louis, tired and exam-muddled (Harry-muddled, too), sits up in bed. 

He dials Harry. As he waits for him to pick up, his fingers absently wind and unwind the strings at his neck. 

“Hullo?” Harry’s voice sounds, rough, confused. Louis wonders if he’d misread the notifications. Maybe Harry’d called hours, _days_ , earlier.

“Um,” Louis says. “You called.” 

“Mmm,” Harry says. And then, softer, “Hold on, this is important.” 

“Don’t worry about it,” Louis tells him. “I can call back. It’s kind of- I’m kind of busy anyway.” He is, too. The only things he should even be thinking about today are sleep and chemistry. He _knew_ he shouldn’t’ve called Harry. 

“No, Louis. No, you stay. Savan wanted to grab something to eat anyway.” Harry’s words come out rushed, tinted dark with the hint of a whine. 

“You’re writing.” He’s seen photos of the process, papers and laptops and random instruments strewn across the floor of a soundproofed room. He knows that Harry thinks best as close to naked as his companions allow. “Or recording?” 

“Yeah and thank _god_ you called back. Just in time.” 

“My dulcet tones inspire you,” Louis jokes. Harry probably just needs a break. Studio hours can become tedious. The same few words and notes over and over and over begin to sound strange, nonsensical even, almost like an alien language, or so Harry says. 

The pause on the other end of the line lengthens. 

“Harry?” Louis prompts. 

“Yeah, actually,” Harry says and Louis’ mind goes white. 

After another long pause, Harry continues, “That’s actually exactly why I called. I understand what you were saying the other day and, like, now, I feel the same way.” 

“What was I saying?” The words come out slowly, like Louis’ pulling each one out from underneath a pile a debris, as his mind pours over the last few conversations they’d had. 

“You remember. When I called you yesterday.” 

Ah, yes. Louis remembers that conversation. “You mean when you called to tell me that you’d met some famous movie star- _but you refused to say who-_ that drunk his own piss every morning as some sort of health regimen?” 

“What? No, that’s not what I called to tell you!” Harry sounds very put out. “I called to tell you that we’d rented to studio time to start work on my new album.” 

And, sure, Harry’d mentioned that, but they hadn’t exchanged more than a couple sentences about it, whereas Louis’d spent nearly thirty minutes trying to wheedle a name out of Harry about the other. 

“And you said you’d never be able to write anything worthwhile in LA. You’d want to be in England, in Doncaster, ideally. Remember?” 

Louis hums his ascent. It’s true. LA has too much sun, too many fake smiles and strange accents. Or so he imagines. 

“And I asked why and you said I’d never understand, that I was too worldly. Which is a stupid thing to say, because I’m still just the same person as I ever was, but I _wasn’t_ sure what you meant so I didn’t disagree. But now that I’m writing, I do understand. I do.” 

“You do?” The question comes out flat and without curiosity. 

“I do, yeah. Everyone talks all wrong and all the stores are wrong and the weather is wrong and none of my family or friends are here and my mind is so muddled with Americanisms that I can’t think straight.” 

Louis tries to process this, tries to make sense of the fact that Harry does know exactly what Louis’d been trying to say, that he _does_ feel the same, but it doesn’t quite fit with Harry’s excitement for traveling the globe, his expensive and flashy new wardrobe, and his increasingly large crew of increasingly famous friends. 

“So, yeah. That’s why I called. I was hoping you could sort me out a bit. I think listening to you talk would help. So, um, can you talk to me for awhile?”

For a long minute, all Louis can hear is the blood rushing through his veins. 

Voice a raspy whisper, carrying across continents and oceans, Harry presses, “Doesn’t matter what you say. Anything. I just want to hear your voice.” 

Louis can’t think of a thing. Usually thoughts, memories, opinions, song lyrics, they all pile up in his mind so fast he can barely sort through them let alone spit them all out to someone else. But now that Harry’s asking him to speak, there’s nothing there. 

Louis is all but certain that his life ended and began again anew with Harry’s hesitating request. 

He casts his gaze about his room, praying that his mind will hook onto something.

For a few long moments everything is blurry and then. His textbook and papers strewn across his desk. 

“How about I read you my chem notes?” 

Stupid. Boring. Uninspired and uninspiring.

But Harry’s voice is low and warm as he replies, “Perfect.” 

As Louis wanders across the room, his throat clenches. When he reaches the desk and begins to finger the pages, their rustling loud in the quiet room, Harry speaks again. “Babe, thank you. I really need this. Need you. You’re perfect for me.” 

**Author's Note:**

> you can reblog the masterpost on tumblr [here](http://juliusschmidt.tumblr.com/post/155731617755/harry-skyrockets-to-popstar-fame-through-his).
> 
> additionally, i anticipate posting the referenced pool memory at some point, as it is already half-written. :)
> 
> eta: also the irony that my writing is riddled with americanisms in the context of this particular ficlet does not escape me. ;)


End file.
